Identity Crisis
by stoof
Summary: AU. Harry Potter and company get the shocks of thier lives one morning by a mysterious curse that has affected the enire school. Will Harry and his friends be able to find the castor, or be doomed to life...different from what they knew?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**I own nothing! All of it (besides the bad writing) belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just a fan borrowing her lovely characters to morph them into a horrendous story line made by my sick, sick mind.

**Identity Crisis**

**Prologue**

The moment he woke up, Harry Potter immediately knew that something was significantly different about him this morning than when he had gone to bed the previous night. At first he had thought maybe it was the fact that he had woken up on his back, which had never been a common occurrence with the green-eyed boy, as generally he was a sleep-on-the-stomach kind of bloke. Then he wondered if it was perhaps that the sun streaming in through his crimson bed curtains was covering his entire blanket-clad torso, making him feel rather hot and even a bit tingly. These two excuses were hardly convincing, though, as they couldn't explain the rather odd, heavy feeling he had about his chest, nor the fact that when he opened his eyes blurrily and stared down at his feet, he couldn't see them. Instead of the usual view of his rather disproportional feet – though thankfully they weren't nearly as large as his friend Ron's – sticking up near the foot of his bed, he found himself staring down at two rather distinct-shaped lumps, covered by the blanket pulled up snugly to his chin, and situated not three inches away from his face.

This, understandably, was rather alarming for the Gryffindor boy, as he had never awakened to such a sight before. Bolting upright in his bed, Harry groped madly about his nightstand for his round-rimmed spectacles, almost rendering them useless as he shoved them forcefully onto his face, nearly cracking the lenses in his desperation to look down at his chest. Sitting up straighter and allowing the blanket to fall back down to the mattress, Harry stared down in growing horror at the two sizable mounds straining against the confines of his (previously) baggy pajama top, the girth of them causing his shoulders to hunch almost the second he sat up.

_Oh hell, what's happened now_? Harry asked himself as he blinked confusedly down at his chest. The sensible part of his brain – the little part of him that had lived ten years in the Muggle world and still didn't quite believe in magic – was saying that oh _no_, he had tumors. The realistic part of his brain – the one that had spent the last six years in the wizarding world and knew all about nasty spells and curses – told Harry quite calmly that he had been hexed during the night by one of his dorm mates, who must have come across this bizarre spell in one of Hogwarts' many library books, and had apparently found it to be an excellent practical joke opportunity. And a third part of his brain – the one part in his mind that _all _boys acquired around the time of puberty – was screaming insistently into his head that _bleeding Merlin's balls_ he had _boobs_!

This little realization had Harry gaping down at his chest – _bosom_? – in disbelief. Surely this was a dream, he thought frantically to himself. It couldn't be possible … there was simply _no way_ that he could go to bed one night and wake up with basoomers the next morning! He'd never even _heard _of such a thing happening before. No possible way – there must be an explanation …

Perhaps it was an illusion? Yes, that must be it. Feeling relieved, and chortling slightly at his previous panic, Harry patted at his pajama top, expecting his hand to fall right through his illusionary breasts and land on his flat and obviously-male chest. When his hand came into contact with an abundance of _soft_ skin instead of the expected hard muscle (or what he tried to convince himself to be muscle), Harry immediately felt squicked, and the first thought to cross his mind was, _So _that's _what a boob feels_ _like_, quickly followed by, _Bloody hell, my first feel is my own basoomer_, and, _Eurgh, how pathetically disgusting_, soon bringing up the rear.

So, definitely not an illusion, Harry decided, as he watched his own hand cup and squeeze a decidedly _not_ illusionary boob. He was very alarmed at the feeling of this cup and squeeze, and found himself wondering why girls ever _allowed_ boys to touch their chests, as Harry found the sensation to be rather odd and not the least bit pleasant. Though perhaps it was because he was doing the cupping and squeezing to his own … er, lump (Harry couldn't handle the thought of _his_ _boob)_, that was making it feel so odd. Did girls not grab their own breasts? Images of various witches he knew cupping and squeezing their own basoomers soon popped into his hormone-riddled, teenaged-male mind, and though he was rather preoccupied with his own _lump _problem, Harry was nonetheless feeling very hot around the face all of a sudden.

Hurriedly turning away from that line of thought, Harry forced himself to concentrate on the problem at hand. If the lumps weren't an illusion – as the green-eyed boy could _definitely_ feel them (this reminded him to remove his still-squeezing hand back down to the blankets before he completely irked himself out) – then what else could have caused them? Perhaps Transfiguration? McGonagall had been teaching them how to switch one object's volume and texture into a completely different object during their last few lessons … maybe that was what had happened? Maybe his new bosom had started out its life as a couple pairs of dirty socks?

This image was definitely the most disturbing to Harry, as his horror-inflicted mind began wild thoughts of him groping Ron's dirty Quidditch socks, and he quickly put a stop to that line of thought, determined not to make himself sick all over his sheets. And anyway, he doubted very much that any of his dormmates would be capable of performing this tricky bit of Transfiguration, as unless his mind was deceiving him, the only one of his dormmates that had managed to actually perform the spell had been Dean Thomas, and even then the other boy had admitted that his transfigured cushion had looked more like a pain-inducing toothbrush, and not the dinner fork it was supposed to be.

So if it wasn't an illusion or Transfiguration – and it most definitely could _not_ be a potion, as Harry's constant run-ins with the dreaded Romilda Vance and her love potions last year had made him more than a little wary, prone to testing all his food and drink before consuming it – then the only thing left was a curse. Which curse, Harry had no idea. How the hell it had been cast on him up in Gryffindor Tower (provided it _hadn't_ been one of his pranking dormmates) was another question he couldn't answer, as well as if he had been the only person at Hogwarts affected, or if it had even been directed at him in the first place. He didn't even know what giving him rather prominent tits was supposed to accomplish. Was it just a practical joke, meant to make Harry blush and keep things lively up in Gryffindor Tower until the next party? Had it been one of the many females at Hogwarts, determined to get back at him for a possible slight he hadn't even realized he'd given? Or had it been meant to humiliate him in front of the entire school? This kind of curse was just something Harry's dearest rival at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy, would enjoy immensely, and could easily be attainable for the blonde Slytherin, what with all the Dark books Malfoy was rumoured to own in his possession.

All these questions were running through Harry's mind in rapid succession, and although he knew that there was a simple way for him to go and get the answers he needed, he was all the same very hesitant to do so, because going out to get answers meant that he had to actually _leave_ the privacy of his bed curtains, and while he was good friends with all his dormmates, he didn't really fancy seeing the looks on their faces when he emerged from his bed sporting brand-new basoomers that … _for the love of Merlin _… _JIGGLED _if he so much as breathed too hard. No, he was definitely loathe to leave the security of his bed, and so he decided that perhaps it would be better to just wait for his friends to wake up and either leave without him or fling open his curtains and get the mad laughing out of their systems before they made it down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

As it turned out, Harry didn't have to wait long for his friends to wake up. And as they did, an answer to one of Harry's many questions was answered for him before he even left the room: apparently, if Seamus Finnigan's bewildered yell of, "Holy _fuck_, I've got _knockers_!" was anything to go by, Harry _wasn't_ the only bloke in Gryffindor affected by this mysterious curse.

A yelp quickly followed by mad scrambling next to Harry's bed informed the green-eyed boy that Ron had apparently woken up to his two new appendages as well, and before Harry could pull back his curtains to confront and try to calm his best mate, the red fabric was wrenched apart and Ron's freckled self appeared, his face flushed as red as his hair and his eyes widened in terror. Beneath Ron's scruffy pajama top were two mounds that danced around merrily as the lanky boy took deep, heaving, panic-stricken breaths.

"Harry!" the redhead cried, his voice much more high-pitched than normal, though Harry couldn't tell if it was due to the effects of the curse or Ron's panic. "M-m-my-my … m-my –"

"I know Ron," Harry said wearily, his own voice much softer than usual, though he supposed that could just be shock. He gestured to his own … dilemma before continuing. "I've got them as well. It must be a curse, though I don't know which –"

Ron cut him off, waving his large freckled hands around like a crazed madman. "Th-that's the _least _of my problems, mate!" he squeaked out. Before Harry could even frown at this statement and wonder what could be worse than having _boobs_, Ron glanced edgily around at their other panicking dormmates before leaning in even further to Harry and whispering desperately, "Harry – my bits are gone!"

Harry felt his eyes widen comically at this new piece of information, and with a renewed sense of panic, he shot his hand down to his crotch, his stomach clenching painfully when he felt the distinct lack of – well – _anything_ down there. In the horrifying and confusing realization of acquiring new … _female _body parts, Harry had completely ignored the fact that, indeed, his bits were missing as well. This new situation Harry had woken up to suddenly seemed a lot worse. The whole thing had seemed much more manageable when he'd simply assumed that someone had given him boobs. Sure it was embarrassing, but he'd figured that worse came to worse, he could just have Madam Pomfrey hex the breasts off and be done with the whole affair by his afternoon classes. But this … this was much worse. Instead of giving him and his dormmates each a new bosom, the mysterious curse had taken it to the next level.

It had turned them all into girls.

**Auhor's Notes:** Liked it? Hated it? Want to smother me in my sleep and rid the world of my sick and twisted mind? Well, leave me a review and tell me what you think! Let me know if I should continue, or just stop while I'm ahead. Remember, this is my first fan fic, so please go easy on me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, so please don't sue, because I'm poorer than lint

**Chapter Two**

Harry and his dormmates were panicking. And it was not the usual hands-covering-mouth _oh goodness me, what has happened_ kind of panic: no, this was full-fledged running round the room, yelling obscenities, yanking hair out by the root, rocking back and forth in a corner, gaping in disbelief at snickering mirrors kind of panic. To put it plainly, it is the type of panic that could only be created by five seventeen-year-old boys who have each awoken to the horrifying realization that, at some time during the night, they had all been turned into girls. Obviously, they were not taking to this new realization all that well. Ron Weasley was currently perfecting the art of pacing round and round the messy room, his freckled face pale and his new basoomers bouncing with every stride his lanky legs took; Dean Thomas was standing in front of the hardly-ever-used full-length mirror, dividing his attention between gaping with wide eyes at his chest and shouting for the bloody magical mirror to stop laughing at him; Seamus Finnigan was standing in the middle of the room, using every context of the words _fuck _and _knockers_ at the top of his lungs, even coming up with lines such as "_fucking fucked knocking fuckered knock-knocks_!" as he tried to put into words exactly what he was feeling about the whole situation. Neville Longbottom, the most forgetful boy of the group, was sitting on his bed, arms wrapped around his knees, swaying back and forth while murmuring the properties of dragonsbane under his breath, over and over again, his eyes glancing fearfully down toward his new bosom every five seconds before snapping back up with a mighty jerk of his neck; and Harry Potter … well, poor Harry was standing in between his and Ron's beds, his glasses askew on his nose and his hands tugging rather violently at his black hair as he tried to figure out how to get him and his friends out of this dilemma.

Unluckily, Harry was not getting very far in his musings of making himself and his dormmates male again, as he was too busy thinking thoughts such as, _If this is Malfoy's doing, I'm going to knock his bloody teeth in_,and_, Merlin's beard, these things are heavy_. The green-eyed boy just couldn't seem to wrap his head round the fact that he was now a girl – well, a boy with girlie parts, at any rate – and what with all the extra _jiggling _his body was currently doing, the amount of time necessary to come up with the simple solution to their problems was nearly doubled. When it did finally hit him, however, Harry abruptly stopped his attempts at manually receding his own hairline, and nearly slumped down onto his bed, he was flooded with such a massive wave of relief. It was so simple – so _sodding_ simple – how hadn't he thought of it before?

Hurling – and yes, the situation did in fact warrant hurling, in Harry's opinion at least – himself into the path of Ron's frantic pacing, the green-eyed boy grabbed his taller friend by the shoulders, shook him roughly, and yelled, "Hermione!" into the redhead's desperate face. He managed to stop Ron from continuing his desperate pace, which was a relief as he was about to pace a hole through the stone floor, but the other boy was now giving him a very confused look.

"Harry, I think the curse has addled your brain," the redhead said slowly, in his much higher-pitched voice. "I'm Ron, not Hermione. Don't let the basoomers confuse you, mate."

Harry rolled his eyes impatiently. "I _know_ you're not Hermione, Ron," he said in exasperation, eyeing his friend's still flaming red hair pointedly. "What I'm _trying _to say –" and here Harry shook the taller boy's shoulders for emphasis " – is that Hermione will know what to do! She's _sure_ to know how to switch us back to blokes!"

Ron's eyes immediately widened, and relief swept over his pale and freckly face, the tension Harry felt in his shoulders lessening slightly. "You're right," he breathed, and Harry tried very hard to ignore how much of a – well – _girl_ Ron had sounded just then. "Of _course_ she'll know what to do. She's Hermione! She knows everything!"

"Right," Harry said. "So all we have to do is go down to the common room, find a girl to give Hermione a message in the girls' rooms, and then –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Harry," Ron interrupted, his face switching back to panic. "You want us to actually go down into the common room? _Like this_?"

Harry paused uncertainly, realizing and sharing in Ron's hesitancy, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and this was certainly one of those desperate times.

"Ron, we haven't got much of a choice here," Harry said, staring into his taller friend's panicked eyes. "I don't want to be seen like this by anyone else as much as you don't, but we can't very well wait up here forever, hoping that Hermione will randomly pop in for a visit! We need her to help, and the only way to do that is to go down into the common room and find a way to get a message to her."

"What, you leaving for the common room, Harry?" Dean interjected, dragging himself away from his argument with the snarky mirror to look bewilderingly at the green-eyed boy. At Harry's affirmative nod, Dean only shook his head and muttered, "You're braver than me mate. I'm not stepping on those stairs 'til this goes away."

"Me neither," Seamus piped up, his Irish lilt sounding very odd with a distinctly female voice, not to mention being hoarse due to all the previous yelling. "I'm not moving from this spot until these –" he gestured frantically at his chest " – go away and those –" he gestured much lower "– come back!"

"Purple, spiky leaves!" Neville squeaked fearfully.

"They've got a point, mate," Ron murmured to Harry, though he was staring rather perplexedly at Neville.

"Yes, because arguing with mirrors, yelling _fuckering fuckheaded fuckwading fuck-knockers_ until you turn blue and spouting nonsense about sodding plants is really going to help solve everything," Harry snapped, his already-frayed nerves beginning to sizzle at the hopelessness of his dorm mates. "Yes, all right, so we've all got boobs –" the boys around him all collectively shuddered, "– and have lost much more important parts, but what do you expect to accomplish up here? If we change things back to the way they were, then we've got to take action, and that means actually _leaving _the dorm room."

When none of the other boys made any motions of agreement, Harry threw up his hands in frustration and said, in his soft, feminine voice, "What's gotten into you lot? We're Gryffindors! We're courageous and brave! We jump into things head first, not cower in our dorm room, afraid to journey into our own common room! We're more Gryffindor than this! Come now, are we men, or are we mice?" Seeing all the baleful glares being sent his way, Harry mentally backtracked to what he had just said, and winced at his choice of words.

"All right, bad comparison," he said apologetically, "but you do understand what I'm trying to say, yeah?"

The faces around him all remained pale and uncertain. Forcefully keeping himself from thumping all his hesitant dorm mates on the head with a textbook (or his basoomers, he thought a bit hysterically), Harry gritted his teeth, counted to ten, and then breathed out, very slowly.

"All right," he sighed, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, "seeing as you _ladies_ aren't willing to change yourselves back, I suppose its up to me to go get Hermione's help myself. If you'll excuse me." Turning to the door, he was almost out in the corridor before he threw back over his shoulder, "You know, I don't really fancy telling Hermione that you lot had been cursed as well. I could just as easily tell her that you've all got flu and are sleeping off the effects. She need never know that you're up here, jiggling in misery and missing your willies."

Harry had barely touched the top stair before he heard his friends scrambling through their bedroom door behind him.

"You're a cruel, cruel wizard, Harry," Dean said solemnly as the five boys slowly descended the staircase leading into the common room and, in most of their opinions, impending humiliation.

"Just be thankful Fred and George aren't at Hogwarts anymore," Ron muttered with a distinct shudder. "This is Christmas come early for them." Harry quite agreed with Ron, and had to keep himself from shivering unpleasantly at the thought of some of the antics the Weasley twins could subject him and his dorm mates to if they ever heard of this.

Luckily for the boys-turned-girls, when they entered the common room, they found it completely void of any other Gryffindors. Harry was momentarily taken aback by the sight of an empty common room, as that had always been a rare occurrence in Gryffindor, what with the over-keen early risers such as Hermione Granger, Harry and Ron's best friend. The fact that Hermione wasn't sitting in her favourite armchair, the table in front completely covered in her colour-coded notes, was another cause for concern, and Harry was just wondering if perhaps his bushy-haired friend had gone down to breakfast early without him and Ron when rather loud yells and shrieks suddenly sounded above the boys' heads. Jumping in alarm, the five boys all spun around to face the stone staircase that led to the girls' dormitories.

It was quite obvious that all the yelling was coming down the girls' staircase, and though Harry spared the brief thought that he really didn't fancy being slid onto his arse for attempting to climb the stairs, as what had happened to Ron their fifth year, he knew that he couldn't keep himself from going up to help, or at least make sure that Hermione was all right. So, straightening his shoulders (which was much more difficult than he remembered), and steeling his Gryffindor bravery, Harry quickly strode to the stairs, ignoring Ron's bewildered question of, "What're you trying to do, mate?" or Dean's, "That staircase'll never let you up, Harry."

Harry had expected the stairs to immediately turn to a stone slide the second he placed his foot on the bottom step, therefore it came as quite a surprise when nothing of the sort happened. The stairs stayed just as they were; not a single pebble even quivered, and while this made the task of getting up to the girls rather easier, Harry felt a vague stab of indignation that the magical staircase now thought of him female. Shrugging off the feeling, he quickly made his way up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and nearly knocking himself out with his breasts in the process. When he reached the landing that led to the seventh-year girls' room, Harry couldn't help but feel smug at the thought of being the first bloke in his year to actually make it up here. The sensation didn't last, though, as his pesky little inner-voice reminded him quite cheerfully that he currently had boobs, and that that was the only way he had made it up the magical staircase in the first place.

_That's beyond the point_, Harry thought to himself, even as he hurried to the door marked _Seventh Year _and knocked. _The point is that I've made it up here before Ron has, and he's got a girlfriend._

No one answered the door. Harry supposed that the girls were all too busy yelling to bother with such things as letting him in, so he hesitantly jiggled the handle and pushed against the door. Peeking his head inside the room, Harry managed to say, "Er, Hermione?" before his brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing and he promptly dropped his jaw to the floor.

Scattered about the alarmingly tidy dorm room were the three – well, Harry supposed he couldn't technically call them _girls_ anymore, as they all looked quite different from what he had seen of them last night. Lavender Brown was standing in the middle of the room, tears streaming down her much more square face as she screamed bloody murder, her infamous shoulder-length blonde hair now barely reaching to her ears, and her widely-acclaimed bosom having completely disappeared; Paravti Patil was standing in front of their floor-length mirror much the same way as Dean had been, though her scruffy upper lip was trembling slightly as she gazed in avid horror down at her groin area, obviously terrified out of her mind at what she saw hidden beneath her nightgown; and Hermione was sitting on the floor near her trunk, an alarmingly large tome propped on her knees, her now-shaggy brown hair flopping about her newly-masculine face as she frantically flipped through pages, her bloodshot eyes completely crazed.

At the rate that his friend was flipping through the pages, Harry knew instantly that Hermione had no idea what had happened to them, and that did not leave the green-eyed boy with a pleasant feeling at all. If anything, it made him feel even sicker than before.

Up in the girls' dormitories, hearing doors slam opened and closed beneath him as younger girls-turned-boys rushed confusedly into the common room, all either crying or screaming; standing in a room where three seventh-year, nearly fully-trained witches stood completely gob-smacked at this new development, unable to even acknowledge his presence; watching as one of his best friends – the smartest witch he knew – searched desperately for an answer to whatever had caused this, Harry knew then that this was more than just a prank, or a spell gone horribly wrong.

They had all been the recipients of an intentional curse.

They had all just been thrown into a situation that had turned from bad to the absolute worse.

They were all _screwed._

**Author's Notes:** And there's chapter two. I wasn't completely happy with it, in all honesty, but I think it's working for now. I realise it took me a long while to actually get that out (wow, just over two thousand words, the world should be shocked) but in all honesty, I haven't much time. Being an architect student is really time consuming, and while I'd love to have this story as a priority, as I'm quite fond of it so far, that's just not going to happen. Sadly, writing is more of a relaxing thing for me, not a desperate need, so while I'll attempt to get chapters in within six/seven days, I can't really promise anything. Don't worry though, I'm fairly stubborn, and so I'll probably end up finishing this story just to spite myself! So, until next time!

**PS**: Review….please? I like reviews almost as much as chocolate, and that is saying A LOT.


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